The Price of a Fair and Free Election
by Reginian
Summary: Despite the exhaustive efforts of a world class medical team, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Fourth—Jerry Grant—has died. / A collection of exploratory one-shots regarding Mellie and Fitz, how they're coping after the loss of a son.
1. The James Madison Hospital

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Scandal _or any of its characters.

A lady stands at a podium, smiling crocodile-wide, shifting her weight from heel-to-heel, effusing ostentatious patriotism in a long exordium to the last speech my husband will ever give as sitting President of the United States. She knows this. The whole auditorium knows this. This is just a kindliness, a final favor to the Grant administration. I am grateful for the diversion. I—we—need time to collect, to compose. Next to me, Fitz grimaces. His tawny eyebrows are knit in consternation. His posture is as slumped as I've ever seen it, and I've been married to this goof for some twenty-odd years. I glance, look away, look down. I don't want to see his expression; I know what it contains. This failure is monumental to him. He thinks he's a loser.

"Do you ever get nervous?" Fitz and I turn to face Karen. She looks tall and like her father, pretty in a striped, blue dress. Jerry stands next to her in a sharp waistcoat; he looks like Fitz, too. I've never noticed it until now; I've never had the liberty before. It's a good feeling.

"Hm?" All traces of the grimace are gone now. Fitz reserves genuine smiles for his children.

"When I was doing "Our Town," waiting in the wings for my cue, I was about to throw up." Looks aside though, Karen sounds more like me—pithy and unrelenting, no words barred; she had a hard time respecting her elders growing up, much like I did. I was infamous for throwing temper tantrums, kicking and screaming when things didn't go my way. Fitz gently pats his daughter on the arm, rubs it comfortingly.

"Get used to it," he says kindly.

"Dad," Jerry looks his father straight in the eye, "I'm sorry you're about to lose."

"Jerry!" I'm quick to scold the fifteen-year old; I eye him with my most maternal stare—wide-eyed and sort of clueless, not catering to the stereotypes I was raised around all my cotton-raising, corn-picking, Southern life. I'm not all that motherly; I'm still learning.

"Really?" But Fitz is only amused. "This from a Reston supporter?" He wraps his arm around Jerry's shoulder, pulls his son close. Jerry gives a crooked smile, hugs Fitz back in that awkward, teenage, hugs-aren't-really-my-thing-anymore kind of way. It's a tender moment though, a happy moment, and then the lady on the podium comes back to focus; we resume our best attention-giving forms. She has finished bestowing her gift. It's time for the First Family to perform.

_"__And now, please give a warm Springfield welcome to the President of the United States, Fitzgerald Grant the Third."_ Fitzgerald Grant the Third grabs my hand, pulls me behind him to center stage. The auditorium is a sea of standing, clapping, hollering people. I can hardly hear myself breathe, the roar is so deafening; it intensifies as we wave to them. Enthusiasts would probably faint if we blew kisses. I'm tempted. This finale _should_ be grand.

There are also lights, blazing in every corner, spotlighting the four of us—Karen and Jerry close at our heels—as we make our way to the podium. Yellow and orange trails us to the "this is it" moment of the Grant Political Dynasty, the culmination of four years in the hot seat. A final speech, Fitz charming the crowd, but not winning their votes; he doesn't exude that Republican gravitas synonymous with George Bush's furrowed brows. I take a deep breath. Fitz takes his position at the microphone, lets go of my hand so I can join the kids. I clench my teeth, masking it with a thin, media-loved smile. _This is it._

"We all know we're on the cusp of another election—and it's an important one—and I hope you all vote, ideally for me." The crowd laughs. Fitz flashes some teeth. All charm, no eyebrows. "I am proud of the work..."

He rambles on. I listen attentively until I hear a sneeze; it sounds like Jerry, but it would be rude for me to look his way. There is shuffling next to me. Peripheral vision makes me privy to Karen's polished flats scrambling, looking antsy. I continue to watch Fitz, but my attentions are varied now. Karen remains agitated.

"First and foremost of which..." Fitz is talking about the bomb at Senator Hightower's funeral now, about apprehending the lunatics responsible for it, but I am listening no longer. There is another sneeze—it is loud and attention-grabbing—and crimson meets my vision in flecks. The flecks splatter my blazer and neck in unholy conflation. My head cocks; I hear myself inhale. My son is covered in blood. The bright red of his mortality gushes from his nose. I feel sick. I am scared. I grab my little boy, pull him to my chest as he slackens; his weight grows in my arms.

"Fitz," I say, and I'm saying it to Jerry because I can't turn away, even to scream for help. I can't leave my little boy. Fitz can't hear me—me and my hushed, shocked tones—and I feel alone as Jerry's eyes roll back in his head, and I can only see the whites before his pale eyelids shutter to a close. He's getting heavier; my knees are growing weak. Tears spring to my eyes, but I can't utter a word because bile is rising in my throat, eager to spill. We are dropping to the ground now. "Fitz..."

We've fallen. _"Fitz!"_

—

Despite the exhaustive efforts of a world class medical team, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Fourth passed away at 8:46 p.m. from bacterial meningitis. He was surrounded by President Grant, the First Lady, his sister Karen...my little boy is dead. He died in my arms, a bald spot on his head where the doctors had tried to operate. Too much swelling, his cranium bursting with fluid; they couldn't work around it; it was an impossible cause. They sewed him up, wheeled him to a room, let him die in my arms. I held his hand. I didn't want him to be alone. His pale arm was livid with dead veins. My little boy is dead. They covered him up with a long, white sheet and removed him from my hold; nurses helped me to a wheelchair—couldn't walk, couldn't breathe—so orderlies could clean the blood, so doctors could examine me—make sure I hadn't been infected.

I am numb. White coats and colorful scrubs swarm around me in varying states of urgency; some are frenetic, others slow, more considerate. Jerry's blood is taken from my neck, sterilized away with soft, gentle pats. Antibiotics are administered via IV; Karen, one bed down, receives the same preventative measures. Meningitis is dreadfully contagious, you know.

I am numb. I allow my blood pressure and oxygen stats to be checked with little fuss; I just stare straight ahead at nothingness; I sit still; I refuse to blink. I don't respond to any stimuli which worries the white coats and colorful scrubs. They recline me on the bed, put a mask to my face as though I've forgotten how to breathe. I probably have. I don't remember.

"_Mom._" Someone is screaming for their mother. How nice.

_"__Mellie." _Lovely name. Mellie is.

_"__Sir, she's hyperventilating. This is just shock. Mr. President, I'm going to have to ask you to stay put until we have her sedated." _It takes me a moment to realize that I'm being difficult. I'm shying away from touch; I just want to be left alone.

_"__And I'm going to have to ask you to move out of the way. That's my wife."_

_"__MOM."_

The scene passes. I'm sitting up again. The mask has been cast aside. Fitz has gone to check on other matters. I'm calmer now. I've been sedated. Karen stands next to me; every so often she whispers my name, checks to see if I'm still listening, still living. On my other side, a nurse instructs me to breathe. I hear them both only dimly. It's like there's water in my ears. It's like I'm drowning. My hands cross my chest; I keep them there so I don't have to swim. Drowning is an attractive option.

Jerry Grant is dead. My little boy is dead. _I want to feel nothing, but I'm numb._ Numb and fine are not the same thing. Nothing and numb aren't either. One constitutes an end, a sense of finality to a world otherwise populated by grief. The other gives way to injury; people numb things they don't want to feel. I'm numb, but tomorrow I might wake to find myself bleeding.

Karen joins me on the bed. She rests her head on my shoulder. We sit here for awhile.

**A/N: **Howdy, Gladiators. c: I hoped you enjoyed this first chapter; I had fun writing it. Though, of course, I do have my concerns. This is my first _Scandal _fanfiction, and I want to get as close to the characters as I can. Criticisms or comments are truly appreciated. Also, I took a lot of dialogue from the episode, thusly most of the creativity in this chapter comes from trying to piece together Mellie's thoughts.


	2. The Next Day

It is a somber day in the White House built on my son's blood still rusting on a lonely stage in Springfield, Washington, still nestled over Mellie's dress, my tie. Wine glasses clink; scotch is spilt; Cyrus is in the campaign room victory dancing to Green Day. A somber day indeed. My son died last night and this is all those blasted politicians and opportunists can think of—Republican supremacy. I should scold them. I'm the leader of the free world. I have that right. Instead, there's a cracked door at the end of one of the East Wing's various vestibules, and I'm staring at it with little remorse; it is far removed from all the news reports, statistics, and polls. Light emanates from the gaps. I can hear the high octave of Teddy's carefree laugh, loud and striking from even where I stand listening, smiling slightly. It only hits me—I only realize it—when I continue to approach, as I savor the cheer in his tone: Teddy will grow up without a single memory of his older brother. He is too young. Jerry was too young. I feel old.

The door continues its path open with a single nudge on my part. Teddy is sitting on the carpeted floor with his legs sprawled outwards. A pile of large legos sits before him in a messy mountain. He picks a few up at random and proceeds to throw them down; a giggle accents the clinking of the toys. He likes this game, whatever in the world it is. He doesn't even look up to greet me.

To the left of the toddler is Karen, who watches her younger brother soberly and with tired, grooved eyes. She has stolen one of my ratty Navy t-shirts and is wearing nothing _but that_, revealing spindly, tan legs that are pulled to her chest; she acts as though this is a normal thing to do in a political palace full of proper dignitaries—go around half-naked and in boxer-cut underwear, no less. I applaud her audacity; I find it quite endearing, too—how little she cares. She is her mother's daughter through-and-through. I lean down and kiss Teddy's forehead on the way to her side. I gently lower myself down to her right. My knee brushes hers.

"Hey." She doesn't look at me when she says it. Teddy continues to play with his blocks, occasionally peering over to check on us. He's an inquisitive, little tyke. He likes to know everything that's going on.

"Hey yourself." A smile tugs at the corner of Karen's lips; it trembles a bit at the top. Mine is equally reluctant. My jaw is stiff. I work to loosen it. I wish to unhinge the words trapped on my palate, but they're stuck and rather cliché. This is unfamiliar territory for the both of us. We haven't visited it in so long. Talking. Acting as a father and daughter normally would. She doesn't look at me. Her focus remains on Teddy. He is no longer enamored by blocks; his tiny eyes scan the room for a more interesting amusement. We sit in silence for a little while longer. Karen shifts her legs.

"He said that Teddy was a political move," she says, rushing through her words before tacking another few to the end. "Jerry did." Her fingers twitch. She is nervous.

I don't say anything; I don't want to let her know she is right, that her brother is just a sham, a figment of America's imagination. I want my little girl to still believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. (Though I accidentally ruined those illusions for the kids a few years ago; Jerry found the receipt to Karen's Christmas bike.)

"Seems like my whole life is. At school, they expect us to be shining examples of good kids. We're supposed to get the best grades and give the best performances." She glances my way once. I meet her eyes levelly; they are a dark brown, clear and velvety, full of injury. "I guess I learned from the best."

Monologuing skills—also from Mellie. I continue my silence. I let her speak. She brushes a long strand of sandy hair from her face, tucks it behind her ear.

"I don't wanna pretend anymore. I don't wanna pretend like everything's fine. Not this time."

_Not this time._

I freeze.

I can't find my voice for awhile. It is swimming in the implications of her words. Teddy has found a new occupation; he rolls a toy car back and forth against the ground. The wheels are muffled in the carpet.

"Is that what you do, Karen?" _Please say no. _"Do you pretend like everything's alright?" _Do you lie to protect me?_

"Yes, Daddy."

_I am just like Big Jerry. _Something inside me breaks. I feel the edges of whatever dignity I have left, crumble. The tightness in my chest further coils. I was supposed to protect this little girl; that day in the hospital, when I first held her sleeping form in my arms, I promised to keep her heart from breaking at all costs. I promised to be her daddy. She isn't supposed to be strong for me, for the family. She isn't supposed to carry that burden.

But they all have, haven't they? Mellie? Cyrus? _Olivia_? Karen? They've—

I've failed as a father. I didn't hide Karen from the monsters; I didn't hide her from me. I forced her into a world where she pretends to smile, where she pretends to like school; I'm making a machine, not a girl.

"I'm sorry, Karen." I can't muster weight behind the words; I can't sound sincere. My throat tightens; I can't say anything to help. How can I? How can I erase the pain? "I'm so sorry."

"He was my best friend."

My shoulders fall.

"I know."

Karen sinks into my arms. I pull her close to my chest; I tangle my fingers in her hair, holding on for dear life. Her shoulders shake.

"He was my best friend."

—

Tom and Hal guard the Presidential Suite tonight. Ever the professionals, they stand at least ten inches away from the wall; they are not lazy agents; they would rather take back pains than be caught slacking. They're good men. Noble men. Uncompromising.

"Tom. Hal," I greet, stopping at the double doors. They are firmly closed; they look as though they've been this way for awhile.

"Good evening, Mr. President."

"Is the First Lady alright? Has she said anything?"

Hal, short and strongly made, looks up to meet my eyes; his own are laced with sympathy as he shakes his head in the negative.

"No, Mr. President. She hasn't said anything."

"Is she asleep?"

"I'm not exactly sure, sir."

I nod in reply, but my stare returns to the doors. I should go in and check on her; it's been a few hours since I had last done so. I'm apprehensive though. My muscles tighten and every primal instinct I own tells me to run the other way, to Olivia and Vermont. I don't want to see what's on the other side of the door. I don't want to see a broken Mellie. It gives me incentive to stay.

"I can knock if you would like me to, sir," Tom offers. I realize I had taken my time staring.

"No thank you." I inch a step closer, my left hand coming to a halt at the door handle. "I can do this."

"Of course you can, sir."

The handle bends under my fingers and the door opens with the pressure I gently apply; the hinges creak and I stop. I opt to just slide into the room, my shirt pressing against the white panels as I go. Strains of yellow light from the hallway ease into the suite with me, pervading the darkness that once held dominion. It is cold in here. I could probably see my breath if I tried. I shut the door behind me, then turn on a lamp with a nearby switch.

Mellie is not in the room.

I look for indications as to her whereabouts. She couldn't have left. Tom and Hal would have told me.

There is an indent where she had once laid on the bed; it conformed to her slim figure; it seems stagnant though, like she hasn't been there in awhile. A scotch glass sits empty on her bedside table. Her high-heels are neatly positioned at the corner of the bed. There is a tray of untouched food on the dresser.

The bathroom door is open.

I take a step towards it, but a thud has me running. I flick the light switch. My head swivels to locate the source of the noise. It is Mellie. She is sitting in the shower fully dressed, wearing her dress from last night. Jerry's blood splotches the front with a sickly crimson.

"Mellie," I breathe. I rush to her side. The shower hatch is open. I'm able to kneel beside her; I take her hand. It is white, pale, and covered with spidery veins.

"I wanted to take a shower," she explains. There is a distant quality to her voice; it is like I am hearing her through a glass wall. It is not assertive and full of life. It is not Mellie's voice. "I need to get the blood off." She doesn't look at me. She stares at the water nozzle; her blue eyes have a mistiness to them. They are covered in fog.

"Can I help you?" I begin rubbing circles into her hand; I remember she used to like that. "Do you want me to help you, Mellie?"

She shrugs; her eyes close. The grooves underneath them are more pronounced now. I begin to slip the sleeves of her jacket from her arms. I slide one arm under her back to prop her up; she is deadweight. She isn't all too keen on helping.

"Did you get any sleep?" She opens her eyes to glare at me, and I finally notice the red capillaries coating the whites. Mellie's drunk. This little Southern Belle has drunk herself into oblivion. I should have poured out those hooch bottles her father sent weeks ago. Who knows what that hillbilly put in them? "Bad question, I see."

I go to zip her down, but the sight of dry blood stops me. It cakes her neck and mats her hair. _It is our son's. _

"How did this get here, Mellie?" I can see her undergarments now. I'm careful not to pinch her soft skin as I zip downwards. Her muscles are loose with inebriation. "The blood?"

She is silent for a moment. I take this opportunity to gently stand her up. Her head rolls back. Her feet slip from under her. Mellie is not a graceful drunk, either. I begin to pull the dress down. It is resistant and stiff. It's not an easy process, no thanks to her.

"I held his hand. Didn't want him to be alone." Her syllables are broken now; she is stumbling through the words. "His hands were bloody, but I held the left one because I didn't want him to be alone."

A single tear slips down her face; it drips onto her bloodied neck.

Vermont becomes an impossibility is this very moment.

**A/N:** Thank you for all the kind reviews. I enjoyed reading them and duly appreciated them.


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